


The Pathologist and The Assassin

by Condiemint



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Injury Recovery, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Condiemint/pseuds/Condiemint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to my incredible beta <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/pseuds/This%20Girl%20Is">This Girl Is</a>!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Pathologist and The Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my incredible beta [This Girl Is](http://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/pseuds/This%20Girl%20Is)!

Sherlock woke up slowly, fighting to gain consciousness against the drugs that filled his system. He was alive. That was good. By far the most probable outcome, but it had not been guaranteed.

Buried deep under the floating ecstasy of the morphine he could feel dull pain in his abdomen. And something else...

He focused. Someone was holding his hand.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the bright glare of hospital lights. He looked toward his hand but could only see a blurry dark outline. In a few moments the blur resolved into Molly Hooper: slumped forward in awkward sleep, her hand clutching his, her head touching his thigh through the sheets.

He tried to say her name, but his throat was dry and hoarse. The sound caught in his throat, refusing to form into words. She stirred, lifting her head to look at him. When she saw him looking back at her she started. She sat up, releasing his hand to smooth her clothes and hair self-consciously.

“You’re awake,” she said.

He tried to reply, but once more his scratchy throat resisted forming words. She reached for a cup of water from the tray and held the straw to his lips while he took a sip.

“Better?” she asked.

“Better,” he managed croakily.

“You were in surgery for two hours. You tore your stitches and also the repair they had done to your liver,” she told him, in what Sherlock thought of as her doctor voice. But then her eyes flashed dangerously causing him to mentally flinch. “You’re lucky the patch to your vena cava held, or you could have bled out again before they even got you into surgery. What on earth were you thinking, leaving the hospital? Almost dying once this week wasn’t enough for you? You thought you would try for twice?”

She was obviously waiting for a reply, her lips pressed together. He liked this new side of Molly, but he wasn’t about to actually answer her question.

“If you are going to slap me again, could you do it later? I’m feeling a bit peaky right now. Besides the morphine would probably take most of the blow anyway, so I doubt it would be as satisfactory for you.”

Molly took a deep breath, her hands loosening from the fist they had formed. “No, of course I’m not going to slap you. And I understand that the work you do contains certain risks. With your people skills it’s a miracle you haven’t been shot before.” She smirked at him, which he found distracting: he liked that knowing smile. But Molly was still angry, her hands twitching in her lap, so he tried to focus.

“But leaving the hospital like that. You chose to do that, Sherlock. You chose to put yourself in danger of all kinds of post-surgical complications. What could possibly be important enough … And don’t say it was for a case. I may be quiet, but I’m not stupid. This was personal.”

He closed his eyes. It was easy to forget how astute Molly could be. He admired that, even though it would make his life easier if she were a bit stupider right now. He couldn’t tell her though; it wasn’t his secret to tell. His job now was to protect Mary. He opened his eyes again, looking at Molly. As he opened his mouth to speak she interrupted him.

“You are preparing to lie to me, Sherlock,” she said gently. “Don’t do that. You told me that I counted, that you trusted me. Was that a lie, too?”

“No,” he replied sharply, his anger surging, making his muscles clench. The resulting sharp pain forced him to continue more calmly. “I want to tell you. I trust you with my secrets, but is it fair for me to trust you with other people’s?”

Sherlock saw her relax slightly against her chair, somewhat mollified as she considered this. The ache in his abdomen was getting worse, it was throbbing now. He reached out and turned up his morphine. Molly softened even further at this reminder of how fragile he was. Her tone was softer when she spoke again.

“John has been here since the ambulance brought you in, but he went to Baker Street an hour ago to update Mrs. Hudson and have a shower. Mycroft arranged to have hourly updates sent to him. I haven’t seen Mary at all,” she said, rambling now. She was watching his hands, avoiding eye contact, giving them both a chance to regroup.

“Which is odd because last time you had surgery she was here constantly until you woke up. And John hasn’t called her and he didn’t want to go home, he wanted to go to Baker Street. So maybe they had a fight, or something?” He had allowed his concentration to drift, watching the skin crinkle around her eyes as she spoke, but this comment snapped him back. He thought he should say something to distract her from the idea, but his brain was foggy, and she had already gone on.

“Mrs. Hudson said you were all shouting before the ambulance arrived, but she wouldn’t say what about. Although you would think, with you in surgery, now would be a time you could get over some petty squabble. Greg was here for a while demanding to wake you up because he is certain you left to confront whoever shot you, that you lied about the shooter wearing a balaclava. But of course we wouldn’t let him. John doesn’t even seem that concerned anymore about the investigation into who shot you. Though he barely talked about anything else when you were first brought in.”

Molly went silent then, and Sherlock could see the wheels turning inside her head. He tried again to think of someway to derail her train of thought. He reached out and took her hand.

“Molly, I’m sorry I left the hospital. I’m sorry I can’t tell you…”

“Oh my God, Mary shot you!” She pulled her hand from his to cover her mouth in shock. Her eyes were wide and her face had gone even paler than usual. “How could she?” she muttered to herself.

Sherlock was so tired and the drugs in his system were fogging his mind. He tried to deny it, but she brushed him off.

“I have to go,” she told Sherlock as she stood up.

“Molly,” he pleaded, stretching toward her hand once more. But she was out of reach and he collapsed back on his bed in pain.

“Rest,” she told him, as she turned and walked out the door.

Sherlock let the drugs overtake him, and closing his eyes, defeated, and slept.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0**

Molly banged her fist hard against the door not even noticing the pain; she just kept knocking relentlessly until the door opened. It was only opened a hand’s width and Mary’s face appeared in the gap. She looked ashen and defeated, but Molly didn’t register Mary’s pain. She was busy with her own.

“You shot him.”

Mary’s face collapsed. “He told you.”

“No, I figured it out.”

Mary seemed relieved at that and made an effort to compose herself. “Come in,” Mary said, scanning up and down the street.

Molly walked past her into their lounge, but she didn’t sit. She couldn’t. She stood in the middle of the lounge, her feet planted shoulder width apart on the thick carpet. There was a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table, surrounded by used tissues.

“You SHOT him,” Molly accused flatly as Mary came through the open doorway from the hall. Molly didn’t turn to face her, she just stared at the wall over the sofa. “You tried to kill Sherlock. How could you?”

“I pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger,” Mary said, deflecting. She tried to move past Molly to sit down on the sofa, but Molly slapped her when she came within arm’s reach. Her hand made a startling loud noise as it connected with Mary’s cheek and Molly felt the impact in her shoulder. She immediately wanted to hit her again.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make jokes about this.” Molly stood absolutely still, her feet rooted to the floor, her hands by her sides once more, as if she had never moved.

Mary sat down. “Sorry,” she said seriously. “It’s brave of you to come here alone. After all, if I shot Sherlock why wouldn’t I shoot you as well?”

“Because he wouldn’t tell me. Even after I guessed, he wouldn’t tell me it was you. If he’s protecting you then he trusts you.”

“I’m his newest client,” Mary said bitterly. “Detective-client privilege?” Molly shot her a warning look and she apologized again. “What do you want to know?”

Molly was silent, looking at Mary. Though tired, her expression was surprisingly open, and she sat comfortably on the sofa. No, not comfortably, Molly realised. She was trying to look relaxed, but there was slight tension in her joints. Molly tried to focus. What _did_ she want to know?

“Why is Sherlock protecting you?”

“For John.”

Silence. The two women looked at each other, one waiting for the other to speak.

“Why did you try to kill him?”

“I didn’t.”

“You shot him!”

“Yes, but I wasn’t trying to kill him. If I had been trying to kill him he would be dead.”

“He almost died!” Molly choked, tears forming on her eyelashes. She blinked them away fiercely.

“Yes. That was unfortunate,” Mary said. “I shot him in the liver, high survival rates, nicked his vena cava. These things happen,” she finished with a shrug.

_Unfortunate_. The word reverberated in Molly’s head. Mary had shot and almost killed the man Molly loved, a man Mary knew that she loved, and it was unfortunate? Well, if Mary could be so clinical about it Molly would be too. She lifted her chin defiantly.

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Because he discovered I was a former intelligence asset and I didn’t want John to find out.”

“What does that mean? Intelligence asset?”

“I used to be a spy. Specifically, I’m a highly trained assassin.”

Molly wanted to laugh at the idea that Mary – kind, funny, lovely Mary – could be an assassin. But she couldn’t laugh. She had no laughter in her.

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove that you’re an assassin.”

“What, you want me to kill you?” Mary scoffed at her.

“Obviously not,” Molly said flatly. “Just do something an assassin could do. Something a doctor’s receptionist could never do.”

Mary stood up and stalked into the adjoining kitchen. For some reason Molly was pleased that her demand had piqued her, that Mary was slightly annoyed at having to prove herself to a pesky pathologist.

Mary reached into the butcher’s block and picked up two kitchen knives. With an economy of movement she took two oranges from a fruit bowl and placed them on top of the refrigerator before walking back into the lounge, as far from the oranges as the two rooms would allow. Mary looked at Molly and then suddenly threw both knives at once, one from each hand. Both oranges were neatly skewered. Mary kept her eyes locked on Molly, almost defiantly: she didn’t even bother to check the oranges, she just sat down on the sofa once more.

“Okay,” Molly said eventually.

“Okay?” Mary parroted, confused.

“Okay. You’re an assassin.” Molly shrugged slightly. “You never told John?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mary’s paused for a long while before she answered. Molly concentrated on the feeling of her feet against the floor while she waited. Solid. Dependable.

“Because Mary Morstan isn’t my real name. Because I’m hiding from people who want to kill me and Governments who want to arrest me. Because by the time I realized I could trust him I had already been lying to him for so long.”

Molly waited in silence, her gaze unflinching, demanding.

“Because he wouldn’t love me if he knew the things I had done,” Mary said, her voice catching in her throat.

“But he knows now?”

“Some. He knows the job title, no specific details yet,” Mary said sadly.

“So you shot Sherlock for nothing.”

Mary didn’t respond. Neither woman moved.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Molly asked, breaking the deadlock.

“What?” Mary asked, shocked for the first time since this conversation had started.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Molly said, coldly canvassing the hypothetical assassination of the man she had loved for years. “He figured out you’re an assassin. You didn’t want him to tell John. So you shot him. But you must have realized that would only buy you some time. So why not just kill him and solve your problem permanently?”

“I thought I could persuade him not to tell John.”

“Okay, but you must have realized that might not work,” Molly pressed. “So why not just kill him?”

“For John. I couldn’t do that to John,” Mary claimed desperately.

“Wrong. You helped John get over Sherlock’s death once, you know you could have done it again. So why not just kill him?”

“Because I like him, okay?” Mary spat out. “I like him and I didn’t want to kill him.”

“But you were willing to take an 8% chance he would die?”

Mary raised an eyebrow at Molly, impressed.

“Human death is my business too, you know,” Molly said flatly. “8% mortality rate from gunshots to the liver.”

“Yes.”

“And you were willing to take that chance?”

“Yes! No! I didn’t want to. I panicked. I needed time to think. John could have walked in at any moment! I would do anything to keep him, Molly. Anything! Whatever it takes,” she finished as tears rolled down her cheeks. Molly stood remorselessly in the middle of the room as Mary wept.

“You of all people should understand that, Molly,” Mary practically begged. “You would do anything for Sherlock, I know you would. If you weren’t so blinded because it was Sherlock I shot…”

“I would do anything” Molly interrupted, “to keep Sherlock safe.” Including holding a conversation with the woman who shot him, she thought, so I can decide for myself whether he is still in danger.

“I would do anything to keep him alive. But I wouldn’t shoot an innocent person to make him love me,” Molly said. Then she turned her back on the assassin and walked to the front door, so that she could go back to the hospital and check on Sherlock.

The sounds of sobbing continued behind her. With her hand on the doorknob she hesitated. Molly sighed as she realized she couldn’t leave Mary alone like that. She had no one to talk to, no one who knew except John, Sherlock, and now Molly.

She went back into the lounge, walked over to Mary, sat down next to her on the sofa. She felt Mary recoil from her slightly as if she had been burned. Part of Molly wanted to be rebuffed, to just turn and leave. But instead she reached out a hand and put it gently over Mary’s. Mary’s eyes widened, but then she leaned into Molly, clinging to her, a wet cheek against Molly’s shoulder. Molly let her cry it out, her arm around her, making soothing noises.

When Mary’s sobs finally eased into deep shuddering breaths she sat up. Molly leaned forward and passed her the box of tissues that were sitting on the coffee table. Mary took one with a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“Oh, Mary,” Molly said her head shaking slightly. “You shouldn’t have shot him, and I don’t forgive you. Maybe I will be able to one day, but not yet. But I do understand. You saw your whole life slipping away from you in one moment and you panicked. And I guess it’s not surprising that you fell back on your training for a solution.”

Mary looked confused.

“Well, you were trained to shoot people. If someone is a problem, the solution is to eliminate them. But you didn’t eliminate Sherlock, did you? So I guess that’s progress,” Molly smiled tentatively.

“You really don’t care that I’m a trained assassin, do you?” Mary said.

“Why should I? John was trained to kill people and I’m his friend. Sherlock undoubtedly killed people while he was – away – and I still love him, God help me.”

“You know that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that out loud,” Mary said. “That you love Sherlock.”

“Well everyone knows, don’t they, except me for a long time, apparently. And probably Sherlock himself. But it is liberating to actually admit it to myself out loud. I love Sherlock Holmes,” Molly said breaking into a goofy grin.

They sat in a silence that was now much more companionable until Molly said tentatively: “John’s not talking to you?” Mary slouched further in on herself at the mention of John.

“He won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

“He will, you know. When he’s ready. You just have to give him time.”

“How much?” Mary asked rhetorically.

Molly replied anyway: “Lots, Mary. Lots and lots. So much it will make you want to scream.” Mary nodded at that. She seemed to be squaring her shoulders for a long battle.

“But in the meantime,” Molly continued, “you’ve got me anytime you need to talk, or a shoulder to cry on.” She smiled, glancing at the damp patch on her shirt. “Or someone to vent with. And you’ve got Sherlock, for what that’s worth,” she grinned again. “He’s not the greatest listener, but he’s on your side, and you know that John listens to him.”

“But what if he doesn’t,” Mary said. “John, I mean. What if he can’t get past this?”

“Then you will deal with that,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “You’re strong. You’ve survived things I can’t even imagine, and you would survive that, too. But cross that bridge when you come to it, yeah? If you come to it. Which I don’t think you will,” she said smiling.

“Oh, Molly. What would we do without you? Sometimes I think you are the glue that holds us all together. Sitting here comforting the woman who shot the man you love. You’re the strongest of all of us.”

“Don’t be silly,” Molly chided. “But I am going to go check on Sherlock, if you’ll be okay? Someone panicked and shot him last week, you know,” she said as she stood up.

Mary stood up too and hugged her tight. “How horrible! The world is full of really messed up people.”

Molly hugged her back. “Well, luckily it seems like everything is going to be okay,” Molly said squeezing Mary’s arm before she turned and left.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All the medical stuff relating to Sherlock's shooting is from [this](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/74878096422/why-mary-did-not-intend-to-kill-sherlock-and-why) fantastic meta from wellingtongoose on Tumblr.
> 
> God what a terrible title! Suggestions welcome. I suck at titles.


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